A Scrap of Yellow Silk
by Ravenya03
Summary: Ever wonder where that yellow dress that Djaq wears in "The Booby and the Beast" came from? This is the tale of who got it for her, how and why...not to mention what happened to it afterwards...
1. Suspicions

_This was born out of my interest in following Allan's thought-process throughout the show, as (in my opinion anyway) he and Much are the only two characters that the writers managed to keep completely consistent through the show's run thus far: Much because his train of thought is so simple, and Allan because his is so complex. It was great fun mapping out the deceptions and manipulations that lie behind Allan's outward actions._

_I was also genuinely curious as to where that yellow dress that Djaq wears came from, and what was originally meant to be a funny story ended up being…well this. And the epilogue caught me completely off-guard. I'm not entirely sure I can take credit for it, as it seemed to write itself!_

_This takes place during "The Booby and the Beast" and I've tried to keep it as close to canon as possible. However, there are also a couple of moment where I've cheated - Marian isn't wearing a dress when she goes out riding with the Count and Eve never wore a flower in her hair - but hopefully it'll become clear why I made these minor changes._

_Also, I don't know if the tavern wench from "Ducking and Diving" was ever given a name - here I've called her Margaret, and she's the woman who is present when Robin discovers Allan's treachery._

* * *

**A Scrap of Yellow Silk**

**Outlaw's Camp**

Allan gritted his teeth and leaned back against the tree trunk, trying not to wince. The bruises that covered his body – thankfully, most of them concealed under his clothing – were still tender, and Robin's latest attempt to get them all killed wasn't doing wonders for his headache.

Around him, the others were preparing for a quick meal before heading for Steven's cottage, the man supposedly responsible for the strong-room that would hold the winnings of the casino – the one that had made Robin positively giddy. Naturally, Robin wanted to stage a raid on the castle, despite the cautionary words of his fellow outlaws, Lady Marian, and a Bavarian Count, and just as naturally, their protests had fallen on deaf ears.

Allan scowled to himself, his eyes watching the excited figure of Robin as he strode back and forth, calling out ideas for their passage in and out of the castle that night. A sense of resignation had fallen over the other outlaws, who half-heartedly returned his ideas with their own suggestions.

Allan didn't bother - if his advice last night had any effect at all, Guy would ensure the castle was so well-guarded that Robin would be forced to concede defeat before any attempt to break in had properly begun. He refused to feel guilty about it, or about the weight of the single gold coin secreted in one of his inner pockets. It didn't take a stretch of the imagination to see that he was practically getting paid to keep them all safe.

_They should be thanking me_, he thought as his eyes closed.

He had returned from his rendezvous with Guy the previous night, deep in thought, flipping the single coin between his fingers. He felt the fool for having initially assumed that vague tidbits of information would appease the temperamental man. Not so. Still, it wasn't a major setback. He'd just have to be more cunning in future, balancing Guy and Robin's mutual desire to sabotage each other by finding a middle path: one that guaranteed the safety of both Robin's life and Guy's money.

He had sighed in frustration: this would be more complicated than he'd originally conceived. Torture had made everything much simpler.

He opened his eyes suddenly, instinctively feeling that someone was nearby. Sure enough, Djaq was standing right in front of him, watching him silently, her eyes level with his by virtue of the slope that surrounded his tree. He jumped, winced and groaned.

"Jeez, Djaq, what're doin'?"

She cocked a speculative eyebrow.

"You are in pain," she told him. "I can tell by the way you are sitting."

"I'm fine," he said. "I told you, just a scrap with a local. Nothing I haven't weathered before."

"Are you sure you don't want me to take a look? I am not in this gang in order to lend a woman's touch to the camp."

He forgot to smile at her joke, his mind suddenly unable to register anything past the thought of her hands running across his torso. For a moment temptation overrode his common sense, and he was about to concede when a sharper thought cut through his daze. Would she be able to tell the difference between the marks of torture and those of his cover-story: a rowdy punter? He had no idea. Measuring up the odds, and looking back into her steady gaze, he swallowed.

"No, really Djaq. I'm fine."

She gazed innocently back a moment longer – too innocently – then nodded and turned away. His insides squirmed.

_She suspects something_.

It had been going on for a few days now, what with her slipping several uncharacteristically curious questions about his whereabouts and wellbeing into their usual conversations. All were asked in a perfectly bland tone, but sometimes he thought he caught a glimpse of insolence in her face, of a challenge in her eyes. And then, it was gone again, and she was once again all friendly sarcasm and wide eyes.

The sight made him profoundly uneasy, as did the thought that she somehow just might be more devious than he was. Something would have to be done about that.


	2. Ideas

_You know, when I first started writing fanfiction for "Robin Hood" I promised myself that I'd never pick on Much, simply because I got so tired of the abuse that everyone else on the show (expect Djaq and Will, most of the time) threw his way. As it turned, I broke that promise, because it's just SO easy to pick on Much. Poor dear._

**

* * *

**

**Steven's Cottage**

He had picked himself up from the ground and stalked from the cottage in a huff, having once again been made to look foolish, this time simply through voicing his concern about the legitimacy of a blind geezer's ability to guide them through a death trap. Now all he wanted to do was get away from the grinning faces and stifled laughs before he said something he'd regret: it was impossible to carry a con when emotions ran high. To top it off he'd made things worse in the Djaq situation, having noticed her (the only one not chuckling along with the rest) watching him as he'd left, no doubt wondering why he was so agitated lately.

He walked briskly into the forest, almost thankful for the distraction that his aching body afforded him. To still his mind, he began to count the tender spots across his body, swearing to himself that he'd get compensation for every ache and bruise and humiliation heaped upon him.

Slowly his anger subsided, and the various aspects of the day's events began to solidify themselves, appearing in his mind's eye as carefully balanced baubles of glass, glinting with opportunities and possibilities. With Guy on the alert about Robin's intentions, there was some degree of certainty that the raid would fail before it had even begun, thanks to an influx of watchful guards.

That meant he could safely throw himself into Robin's plan to break into the keep, allowing himself some measure of security against accusations of disinterestedness among the other outlaws. It wouldn't hurt if he threw in a few suggestions along the way, and since his absence that afternoon would have no doubt raised the ire of the others, he knew he'd have to make an effort to seem enthusiastic about their latest concentrated effort at mass suicide.

And then there was the problem of Djaq. She was the most subtle person he'd ever known, and that fact filled him with unease. He quite simply had no idea what she was thinking at any given time – the sign of an individual that one should never risk conning.

Yet he needed to distract her somehow, divert her energies toward something other than his secretive activities. But what? He was fresh out of black powder, Saracen medicines or any of the other incomprehensible scientific guff that made her eyes light up like Much's did when confronted by food. But what else could possibly interest her? His thoughts drifted back to that morning and the foppish figure of the Count. Perhaps he could set her up with something from that quarter – some foreign ledger or new-fangled gadget. Though he'd be hard-pressed to tear the man's attention from Marian, who – judging from her dress – was no doubt using her own particular brand of con-artistry to bend the man to distraction.

He stopped as a new bauble, gleaming with promise, unexpectedly dropped into his mind.

_A distraction…a disguise…a dress…_

An idea was forming in his mind, one that could potentially kill two birds with one stone. Letting it gradually edge into place, allowing it to grow in complexity and design, he eventually turned around and briskly headed back to camp, a smile crossing his lips.

He found them huddled over a small, hastily-crafted wood structure that he presumed was a model for the strong room.

"Nice of you to join us, Allan," Robin said, pointedly.

Allan smiled amiably, calmly noting that since Robin was _still_ determined to go through with this idiotic plan, he had no choice but to put his own into play.

* * *

**The Outlaw's Camp**

After the disaster that had been the practice run, it wasn't long before the gang soon ran up against another problem: how did they get in? As Will had pointed out, the guards would be on full alert, careful to monitor every guest that passed the gate and ordered to search any cart that headed toward the keep. It was likely that the watchmen would be doubled on every wall, and most of their usual entrances and exits would be blocked by the milling crowds. It would take only one amorous couple sneaking into a shadowy alcove to raise the alarm at the sight of six outlaws sneaking around the corridors at night.

Allan pricked up his ears, and listened intently for his cue to speak.

"It would seem the eastern wall's storage door is our best bet," John rumbled. "The wall around it is sheer: no guard atop the wall would see us unless they looked straight down. And even that will be difficult if we keep our backs to the wall."

_So far so good,_ he thought.

"Problem though," Much replied. "The door can only be opened from the inside. And it needs a key. That means some of us would have to sneak in first, get a key from the guard, and then let the rest of us in."

"He's right," Robin said. "There's got to be an easier way. Maybe over the walls somehow. Or in through a private room."

_Uh-oh_.

"Well hang on," Allan piped up. "It wouldn't be that hard for us to get in through the gate, minglin' in with the crowd, like."

"No," replied Robin. "Our disguises are that of peasants and tramps. We'd need to be in fancy gear, and we don't have that."

_Not yet anyway..._

"Maybe Marian could smuggle us some clothes," Much suggested.

"Yeah, just one problem with that, Much: _she's a woman_. Unless you _want_ to try on some of her outfits."

Much shrugged his shoulders sullenly under the snickers of the other men and lapsed into silence. Djaq, who was currently stitching up a tear in one of her shirts, gave a barely-audible sigh before continuing on with the task at hand.

"There is a chance we could disguise ourselves as one of the servants," Will suggested. "There should be a lot of them called into work on a night like this."

"By now all the servants will be inside the walls," Allan told him. "The only late arrivals will be the women hired to watch over the tables. It'll take 'em all day to get dolled up.

"Hey," he cried, as if the thought had just come to him. "Maybe we could pay one of them to open the eastern door for us."

He relaxed against his tree trunk, and waited for one of them to make the connection.

"No, too risky," Robin said. "However much we paid them, it wouldn't take much for them to consider the fact that the sheriff would pay more to know what we were up to."

Allan didn't dare look at Djaq, instead concentrating on looking completely nonchalant. He shrugged. "Just a thought."

John sighed in frustration. "What's it to be then? Stealth or disguises?"

"I still think our best bet would be to blend in with the crowd," said Will. "Surely we have some clothes lying about that could pass one of us off as a nobleman."

"Not for all of us," Robin sighed impatiently.

Allan wriggled his toes in anticipation.

_They're getting closer_.

"Only one of us then, _one_ of us gets dressed up," he suggested.

Will suddenly started and looked up at Allan, catching on. He shifted uncomfortably and Allan raised an inquiring eyebrow at him.

"Got an idea Will?"

"No," he said, altogether too quickly, his eyes flickering momentarily at Djaq, who kept her own serenely on her work. "I've just realised – the guests will probably have invitations that need to be checked. Some form of identification at least."

"One of us gets in another way then," John said. "Lets in the rest of us by the east door."

"Yes but _how?_" whined Much.

"Perhaps we could dress you up as a serving wench," Robin said with a straight face. "Give your face a shave and you'd blend right in."

_This is not funny_.

It was also the final straw for Much, who leaped up, stormed away, performed an odd three-sixty turn and marched back into their midst.

"Djaq is a woman!" he announced triumphantly.

Allan lifted his eyes to the heavens. _Finally_.

Robin and John exchanged bemused glances. Will looked at his shoes as though they were the most fascinating objects he'd ever beheld.

"She can sneak into the castle with the serving women and open the latch for us. Only she doesn't have to sneak. She can go as a woman. Because that's what she is."

Djaq was now looking a little alarmed.

"I do not think-"

"No, that's a great idea!" Robin cried, leaping to his feet.

Allan leaned back, and tried not to look too pleased with himself.

* * *


	3. Plans

_I've always wanted to know what led to Allan's dress remark whilst he and Djaq were in the wagon in "Brotherhood." So here's the full version of that conversation._

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* * *

**

**Outlaw's Camp**

As the day wore on, Robin and Much continued to fuss over Djaq as though she was some newly discovered weapon to be used in the crusade against the sheriff. John was watching the proceedings with a detached, though thoughtful look in his eyes, and Will had long since retreated into monosyllables whenever any opinions were asked of him, pouring his undivided attention into fletching a new batch of arrows. Djaq herself seemed to be torn somewhere between agony and bemusement.

"You don't walk properly," Robin said to her. "You stride too much – try to copy how Marian walks."

"I believe _you,_ not I, are the expert on how Marian walks," Djaq replied, but gamely began pacing across the camp, attempting to make her steps lighter than usual. As she passed by Robin, he reached out and affectionately tussled her hair.

"That's another problem," Much said, gazing at her speculatively. "Your hair. It's too short to be a woman's hair."

She ran her fingers through her cropped hair uncertainly.

"It is longer than it used to be," she said.

"Not long enough," Much said critically. "You need to cover it somehow. Or – I know! – Eve once wore a flower in her hair. You could do that."

His eyes immediately lost focus, drifting off into oblivion, whilst from his perch, John suddenly jolted, as though startled by something, before settling down again in silence.

"There aren't any flowers in bloom this time of year," Djaq pointed out. "It'll just have to do as is."

Meanwhile, Robin had begun to rummage through the various trucks littered about the campsite, eventually pulling out a slightly-rumpled garment and trying to smooth it out with his fingers. He looked at it, a little baffled, before tentatively handing it to Djaq. "Will this fit?"

She cast her eyes over it.

"I think so. Maybe a little long though."

She shook it out and held it against her figure. It was green, roughly her size, with billowing sleeves and an embroidered bodice. No doubt on its way to one of the noblewomen in Nottingham before they'd swiped it.

"What do you think, Will?" Robin asked, unable to resist verbally poking the youth into making an observation. Will opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

"Is good," he managed to splutter.

"It matches your eyes!" Much called out cheerfully.

Djaq suddenly threw her head back and laughed. Since she rarely gave herself over so completely to mirth, it stunned the men into silence for a moment, listening as though they would to an unfamiliar bird-call filling the forest air.

"I have always wondered what it was like to have sisters," she told them, still chuckling.

The others looked sheepish, but Allan wrinkled his nose – the dress didn't suit her. Not that she, or any of the others for that matter, seemed to notice. On the contrary, Djaq seemed quite content with it, draping it over an overhanging tree branch and turning back to her shirt.

Tapping his foot, he gestured to Robin to join him a few feet away.

"She can't wear that."

"Why not?"

Allan gave him a look. "She'll be in among women who are there to serve wine, cut cards and smile prettily. And girls like that don't wear _those_ kinds of dresses."

Robin sighed. "We don't _have_ any other dresses. Besides, I don't think she'll be too open to the idea of dressing like a harlot."

"Leave it to me," he told him. "I can get something."

He ignored the look on Robin's face and for the second time that day, stalked off into the forest. As he strolled through the trees, he cast his mind back to the first time he'd spoken to her properly. He remembered being surprised to find himself sharing the back of a hijacked cart with her, even more surprised to find that instead of the dour, stand-offish Saracen youth he'd been expecting, she possessed a sunny temperament and an intriguingly familiar sense of humour. It had been only a matter of seconds before they'd been exploring the contents of the pilfered trunks and teasing each other as though they'd known each other all their lives.

"This here is one of the perks of the job," he'd told her, taking it upon himself to teach her the ropes. "We temporarily get to dress like kings before passin' it all on to the poor."

"I don't think jewellery suits one who is dressed in boy's clothes," she'd laughed as she draped a chain over her neck.

"Maybe if you try wearin' a dress!"

"I will if you will. Or are you afraid of looking too pretty?"

Thinking back to that day, he was determined to get her in a better dress – he hadn't gone to all this trouble already just to see her dressed more decently than a nun...and that green number wouldn't do much in the way of lifting her attention from any potentially-suspicious journeys into Nottingham he may need to make in the future.

* * *


	4. Promises

_I'm sure you'll all remember this woman: she was the blonde go-between for Guy and Allan, and was present when Allan was found to be the traitor by Robin in "Ducking and Diving." In watching this episode, I felt that there was something in their demeanour that suggested they had a bit of a history together..._

* * *

**The Tavern**

Margaret was clearing tables in the tavern when he entered, and smirked at him from across the murky room. He'd felt a groan when Guy had organised this tavern as the rendezvous point, telling him that the fair-haired barmaid would be their contact and go-between.

"What's the matter?" Guy had demanded. "Do you know her?"

He'd sighed. "Yeah, I know her."

Now he glared back at her, knowing that she was revelling in his newfound status as a spy. On his occasional visits to her after joining in Robin's activities around the villages, she'd been full of scepticism about his commitment to the cause, mocking him with his with past misdeeds and hedging bets as to when he'd be back up to his old tricks. He'd taken it all in his stride, not caring one way or the other as to what a common tavern-girl like her thought of him, but now he found that her crowing demeanour – as though she'd known all along that his newfound altruism was only a temporary lapse in judgment - was especially galling.  
He swallowed his pride and stalked over.

"Well, well, back for more? Money, that is," she asked, tilting her golden head prettily.

"I need a dress."

Her eyes widened – he'd caught her off guard that time, but she soon composed herself.

"What for?"

"No questions – I just need one."

She gazed at him for a moment, measuring the sincerity of the request, and then shrugged, turned her back, and led him to the small door behind the bar, behind which wound a dark and narrow staircase up to where the real money of the establishment was made. He followed her up the stairs and down a narrow hall to a door at its end, one which she opened before standing back to allow him entrance. Inside, a range of clothing was draped negligently across various articles of furniture. He glanced at her, and she gestured widely: _take your pick._

Feeling slightly self-conscious, he began to pick through the assorted dress-wear. It didn't take long for disappointment to set in – he _didn't_ want Djaq to be mistaken for one of the women who wore garments like these. And even if he did, he suspected the only reward he'd receive for presenting her with one of them would be a slap round the face.

Then a glint of gold caught his eye, a glimmer in the afternoon sunlight. Strewn on the floor behind a chair he spied scrap of yellow silk, and as he pulled it into view, he tried to hide a smile. Low cut, no sleeves, high slit in the gown, but not so revealing that she wouldn't die of shame. Perfect.

"This'll do," he said off-handedly, folding it under his arm.

Margaret, who'd been watching him with an unreadable expression on her face, suddenly laughed.

"Oh, and you expect me to just let you waltz out of here with it?"

"That was the general idea, yes."

"You'll have to pay for it."

He rolled his eyes. "Oh, come on Maggie!"

It was no use saying he was broke, she knew full well his arrangement with Gisbourne. He tried a different tactic.

"Come one, lend it to me. For old time's sake."

"In the old times, _I'd_ be the one receiving the dress. Who is she anyway?"

He ignored her.

"Please," he wheedled. "It's important."

"Yes, I'm sure bedding your latest wench is indeed of utmost importance to you, but the rest of us have a living to make. It'll cost you. Half of what Gisbourne's paid you."

He spluttered. "What? That's crazy!"

"That's the deal."

He gritted his teeth. Beyond the bountiful windfall of that first night, when the weight of the purse on his belt had almost felt like ample compensation for a few punch to the gut, he hadn't exactly earned a lot. It would take time to figure out what information was worth selling and what wasn't, and till then, his pockets weren't being lined.

And he couldn't squander away what little he had so quickly – on a disguise that would be used to steal from Guy's benefactor, no less! He rubbed his forehead, weighing up his options. What was the dress really worth? It would get them into the keep reasonably safely. It would put Djaq in a more favourable state of mind. But wait - this was ridiculous! He wasn't giving up his savings for a dress! Especially for a girl who wasn't even...

Suddenly, another idea sprung to mind, and he kicked himself for not thinking of it in the first place.

He glared at Margaret in resentment and casually threw the gown aside. She was watching him with cold, flinty eyes.

"Sorry, not worth it," he told her.

"Then I guess I'll be seeing you the next time you have information to sell about your friends."

"Guess so," he replied, and headed down the stairs, listening for her footsteps behind him on the stair. He didn't look back as he left the tavern, but lingered near the door long enough to establish by the sound of clinking glasses and trays that Margaret had returned to her work. Casually, he sauntered around the side of the building and glanced up at the open window on the second floor.

It took only a few moments to shimmy up the overhanging tree and onto the guttering, edging himself along to the window. He'd made the trip many times before in the past. Lowering himself into the bedroom, he reached out for where he'd left the discarded dress…and found himself grasping a dark cloak instead.

"Back for this?"

Margaret leaned against the wall of the room, half obscured by the open door. In one hand was the dress, in the other a small knife that she twirled between her long fingers.

"Okay, look Maggie – "

"I know you too well Allan," she interrupted him, sauntering forward. "You've never done an honest thing all your life. And whoever this dress is for – she'll see it too. Like I did. Now pay up, or get out."

Bitterness and coldness filled her voice in equal measure, and for a moment remorse filled him for the way he'd once treated her.

Avoiding her gaze, he reached into his deep pockets and pulled out the gold coin of the night before – the one he'd had to scrabble for in the dirt after Guy had dropped it at his feet. She looked at it speculatively, then took it, testing it between her teeth before depositing it in her apron pocket.

"Care to spend any more while you're here?"

Behind the sarcasm he could hear the legitimacy of the offer. He yanked the dress from her grasp and stormed past, cursing her, the dress, Guy, Robin, and himself under his breath.

* * *


	5. Gifts

_Here's the next part, in which Allan gets the dress to Djaq - but things still don't go quite as he wanted them to. Thanks readers, especially those that comment!_

* * *

**The Forest**

He hurried back to camp, trying to justify his actions to himself. Money spent now meant more money that needed to be earned through his association with Guy. His role as spy would have to be extended for a while longer if he was to regain what he'd lost on the dress. But the dress was necessary to get them into the keep, the safest way to get them in and out – and goodness knows, if he didn't look out for their safety, Robin wouldn't.

And it was a valuable smokescreen for Djaq's sharp eyes, diverting her from his long absences. That was how girls thought: distract them with pretty words and trinkets and they wouldn't notice you cutting their purse strings. This situation was a little different, but the same logic still applied. He needed her attention off him and onto something girlish – this would almost certainly do the trick, or else she'd be so grateful she'd quit giving him those downright unsettling looks of hers. And he quickly pushed aside that other, deeper reason…to see yellow silk on dusky skin…

* * *

**Outlaw's Camp**

As he returned to camp his mind was spinning from all the double-crossing he'd done that day, trying to keep track of who knew what, how much he could say, and whether he was to be sabotaging their efforts tonight, or to let things go smoothly... Desperately he tried to still his whirling thoughts – frantic minds led to mouths that made slip-ups.

He'd returned just in the nick of time, the others having made their preparations and gathering near the cart that would transport them into Nottingham, just waiting for Will to hammer fast a few loose boards. Robin was outlining the plan one more time:

"We drop Djaq off at the woman's quarters – she gets changed and blends in with the other women – once inside, she filches a key from a guard and lets us in. We'll be waiting at the eastern door, and from there we'll head down to the strong-room…"

Allan's mind drifted away as Robin blathered on about timing and Marian's distraction and their eventual escape through the kitchens to the Count's carriage. Before Robin had even finished, he'd edged his way over to Djaq and pulled the rolled-up dress out from under his arm. But in the moment before presenting it to her, he was mortified to find himself struck by self-consciousness, and the act of giving it to her (which in his mind had been a rather suave affair) was somewhat lessoned by the fact he shoved it into her arms and muttered: "Wear this instead."

She recoiled backwards – he'd pushed it into her just a little too hard – and stared at the yellow garment, speechless. Will's hammering suddenly intensified. Much looked at him suspiciously.

"Where did that come from?" he demanded.

"There are a number of women in Nottingham who are more than willin' to lend me their clothes."

Djaq would hardly be impressed by such a claim, but he'd cut off his own ear before admitting to anyone that he'd actually paid for it. He watched in satisfaction as Djaq ran her fingers gently over the yellow silk. _Worked like a charm._

"Let's go gang," called Robin, but as they headed for the cart there was a gruff: "Djaq."

Allan glanced back as she turned to face John, and felt his jaw slacken as the burly man reached into his waistcoat and pulled out what appeared to be a faded silk rose, crumpled and worn.

"This was Alice's," he told her shortly. "She wore it on our wedding day. For your hair."

Djaq looked stunned and said nothing, but took the rose gently from John's large hand and almost reverently stroked the petals before tucking it safely in the folds of the gown. As the huge man and the diminutive woman climbed into the back of the cart beside him, Allan risked a quick glance at her face.

She looked overcome. Her eyes were a little damp. The dress was forgotten.

_Thanks John. Thanks a bloody heap_.


	6. Visions

_Here's the final part-but-one (there's an epilogue still to come) that brings this little fic to an end! Thanks readers - comments much appreciated._

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**The Road from Nottingham**

It hadn't last long, just a few moments at best: a flickering moment at the entrance of the gate when her face had looked into his just like it always had: amused and affectionate, and then the brush of her against him in the corridors, the brief scent of her hair in the darkness. Then, in a matter of seconds, she'd emerged in a significantly-less interesting servant's outfit, and then they were suddenly gathered together on the Count's carriage, making their passage home again.

During the celebratory dinner around the campfire, (Much had managed to pilfer some supplies from the kitchen on the way out) Allan had watched out the corner of his eye as the rose passed hands again; John carefully returning it to the hidden pocket under his vest before raising his craggy head and glaring at the others around the campfire, daring someone to comment. No one did.

_Who'd've thought the big guy had it in him?_ Allan thought.

And just how long had that rose been there anyway, unseen and unknown, tucked away close to John's heart?

Then, unexpectedly, Djaq turned to him.

"Thank you for the dress," she told him quietly. "I do not often get to feel like that. In fact, I do not think I ever have."

He squirmed, caught somewhere between smugness and guilt.

"Well...huh," he managed, then sighed to himself. Clearly Will's verbal disease was catching, but at least the con was complete. She'd been suitably distracted. Though he'd have to tread around her carefully, he was confident that her suspicious had slackened.

Silence lapsed over the camp, as drowsy stillness came over the exhausted outlaws. It had been a long day, and Allan gave himself over to the movement of the flames in front of him, letting their hypnotic dance calm his scattered mind.

Then the quiet voice next to him shattered his peace.

"It must have cost someone a lot of money."

Irrational terror swept through him, like a cold finger pressed to the nape of his neck, but he kept his eyes on the campfire, striving to keep his face tranquil. At his side, his thumb pressed itself deeply into the knife point on his belt. He should have known this one couldn't be swayed by charm and a bit of shine.

_She didn't just suspect. She knew_.

* * *

_Aaaaand…that's it, basically! But there is still the aforementioned epilogue still to come, that explains what happened to the dress afterwards. Hopefully this ending doesn't seem to abrupt, but my point was to keep all the action within the scope of the episode itself, and to create a sort-of "bridge" between the suspicious look that Djaq gives Allan in "Sisterhood" and Allan's 'confession' to her in "Ducking and Diving," in which he seems to have guessed that she knows he's the traitor. _


	7. Memories

_Here's the final part, an epilogue that takes place after the events of the S2 finale. I hope you all enjoyed this story, and as always, comments are most appreciated!_

* * *

**Eight Months Later**

It had been three days and nights since their return, trudging silently into the desolate camp that no longer felt like home. It just wasn't the same without them. Who would have thought that two such quiet people would have left such a gaping silence?

A long, lonely stretch of time unravelled before him, and he wondered if it was possible to die of loneliness. In a way, this was worse than his stint in Guy's employment, for at least his nights at the castle had been tempered by the knowledge that he'd known where she was.

But now she was leagues away, falling asleep and waking up in someone else's arms, beginning the first steps of a new life that was closed to him. Only the tiniest speck of pride that remained to him prevented him from abandoning this dreary existence and jumping the next ship back to Acre, to seek her out and beg at her feet for one last chance...

However that evening a break in the monotony had occurred. For the first time he'd been trusted with the night-watch, despite Much's displeasure.

"If we wake up murdered in our beds, don't blame _me._"

Still it was a start, he thought to himself, taking the usual route between the lookout points, moving regularly between them in an attempt to keep himself awake. His thoughts seemed slower, more sluggish lately, though whether this was due to the sleepless nights or some other change in his design was something he hadn't figured out yet.

But there was some degree of self-awareness in him now that he knew he hadn't possessed before, born of bitter experience that had been far more painful than any torture. Looking back, he now realised that a part of him had always known he'd get caught, known that it was only a matter of time before the truth came out, known that he wasn't half so clever or quick as he'd liked to believe he was. It had been insanity to believe he'd get away with it. Now he understood that the dress had been an attempt to give her something to remember him by, something good and shining that would remain after he inevitably lost her to his own greed and arrogance.

In the darkness, he scrabbled about the roots of tree trunk where he knew a range of supplies and disguises had been stored. There were only a few moments of confusion before he held it in his hands, colourless and limp in the windless night. The dress that had won him so little and cost him so much. Had it been worth it to see her that night, her form gliding through the torchlight and her face glowing with unaccustomed femininity? That smile she'd given him…

A grunt startled him out of his reverie: nearby John had shifted in his sleep. He looked over at the dark hulk that was the sleeping form of John, a rose tucked somewhere between his heavy winter clothing and the rise and fall of his massive chest. Letting the silk run through his fingers, a thought came to him, and he carefully unsheathed his knife, held the dress across his knee and cut a strip of silk off the skirt. She'd never wear it again, and he couldn't bear the thought of anyone else wearing it either – so there was no remorse in this permanent damage.

Stuffing the damaged gown, as well as the hodge-podge of hats, cloaks and assorted articles of clothing back into the hollow of the tree, he straightened and carefully folded the scrap of yellow silk into a tiny square. Stroking it with his thumb for a moment, he then tucked it into his pocket before heading on to the next lookout post.

_The End_


End file.
